Wake Up Call
by maleV
Summary: Sleeping in does apply to one tired captain.


Jesus, he hated it, prying himself away from that warm body that was pressed so tightly to his own they may have been one. Had been one, all night long, but only one of them had to get up this morning. The sun still having never raised to wink its one eye over the horizon and give them a kiss of light to work by, or rouse them from their slumber. Time became a sense when night blended to day. The blackout curtains were there to keep such a thing from happening. Because of days like this, where only one of them had to pry themselves out of the warmth of the massive king sized bed that engulfed their bodies, the blankets bunched up around the figure that, this time, was allowed to finally take in a few more hours of peace. Long weekends like this made it hard to leave him there. Seated naked on the perimeter of the bed, Captain Chris Redfield stared at his own toes, eyes half-lidded, as his solid forearms rested over his knees. Despite his best efforts, he was more akin to a bear crawling out of hibernation than an early bird getting the worm, yet he began the ritual of preparing himself for the long day ahead. Lumbering forward as he stood upright, he grunted as his foot caught around the shemagh upon the ground, causing one of his large arms to outstretch and flail briefly, scowling. Reaching down, he snatched up the scarf and unwound it from the corner of the bed, tossing it over the still peacefully sleeping body with a barely audible obscenity muttering past his lips. Everything was in keen order within his home, all his gear laid out before him, but none of it would be applied before a shower to wash away the evidence of the long, restless night.

It was regrettable to say good-bye to the plush mattress beneath him, running a calloused hand over the Egyptian cotton, bunching it beneath toughened pads before tossing back the heavy comforter that covered his well toned calves and sculpted thighs, baring himself to the cold morning. As meticulous as one man was, the other was all fire. The carpet floors were a minefield of scattered artifacts, each one cast aside in the heat of the moment. The shemagh was only the last to come off, to make it so close to the bed. Reaching down at the waist, teetering from gravity and vertigo, Chris scowled, raising a brow, as the tan colored tactical jacket usually sported by his partner was gathered off the ground, the patch on the right shoulder standing out from the rest of all the neutral platitudes. Taking a few more steps, he tossed the jacket with a slough to the foot of the bed, the weight of it slung there causing a shift of the body beneath the blankets, turning away from the sounds of activity, and back into slumber. Brisk, early morning air swept across the mounds of his shoulders as he dragged burly hands down his face, coarse fingers scraping the scruff along his cheek and jaw. Cold water splashed from his palms against his face as droplets of water trickled down from his nose and brows, inhaling a deep breath while the cool water awakened his groggy senses. Snatching his red tooth brush from the nearby holder which wobbled in response, wintergreen scented toothpaste spat from his mouth after brushing, snatching up a mouth wash bottle filled with green liquid. Exhaling quietly, he unscrewed the cap before upending the bottle into his mouth, gargling the wash before spitting that out, too.

Water was the only thing that could truly rouse the senses, reaching a hand within the glass shower stall and cranking the nob, seeking that hot, almost boiling heat used to scrub the body clean. Exfoliation always felt the best when you were scrubbing away dead skin with steam rising off the body. Head to toe, starting with the short cropped hair. Bear claws started at his face, his features felt older, more drawn every morning; the course stubble rasping beneath fingertips, the rivulets of water softening the harsh sound. Two days since he'd last shaved, and weighing the options in his mind, decidedly it could wait a third. Both palms running over jawline and furrowed features, meeting in short cropped hair, head lulled down against his collarbone, the captain finally sought a slim bottle of shampoo. The scent subtle, yet masculine, a single squirt in the palm of his hand enough for cleaning such easily maintained locks. They'd been longer once, but he was too tired to deal with the maintenance. Outstretching his muscled arms, his palms rested flat against the wall of the stall as the steamy water ran rivers down the sculpted contours of his broad backside. Lowering his head as water rinsed his hair, closing his eyes while considering the agenda of the day. A white wash cloth was used to scrub against his barrel chest, leaving behind a trail of suds. Piers, Jill, they both came to work looking like a million bucks. Him? It didn't matter, he was clean and that was all that was important.

Craving a cigarette, a hand lifted to slick back his short, dark hair. During his time in West Africa, he had sported longer hair, but the sting of sweat in his mahogany orbs, and impeded view whilst shooting had become more than a burden since then; efficiency was what mattered, not style. The slick sloppy mess of suds lathered against his tight muscles, the heat wearing off the aches of his body, the knots and scarred tissue. His rotator cuff screamed while washing his lower back, a flash back of the battles he had, hand to hand with a giant. Tyrants larger than he, and their master. Wesker still had his revenge, knowing that Chris couldn't get out of bed in the morning without feeling the aches and pains of well worked, and broken bones. Some had healed properly, others not so well, but all of it left the captain weary before the day already began. Without adrenaline, he'd be nothing. Even fully cleansed, it took nearly a half hour before all his aches and pains had muted their yawns and frustration. Finally, free to stand beneath the rain and right his brain for the days routine. Reaching out to shut off the warm water, standing still even as the water turned icy cold. Nostrils twitched slightly as his heartbeat steadied as he briefly adjusted to the ice water, before shutting it off as well. Toweling himself off as he dripped water from his nude frame, all the way back into the bedroom, reaching down to snatch up his untied work boots; he sat upon the edge of the bed, the mattress bowing under his weight.

Pulling a fitting, white tee over his head and shoulders, the remaining water upon his barrel chest absorbed into the fabric, making it see through in some places, around the pits, and the dips in his pectoral muscles. Collar bones clearly visible through the smooth covering. He never slept enough, but there was no time for complaining, and the world wasn't built on whiners. So, he would get his act together, and be the man that the world needed him to be. Worn, denim jeans slid up his muscled calves and thighs, buttoning and zipping up just beneath the muscled 'V' leading to his crotch. Swiping a forearm across his face as he felt an itchy nose. The duffel at his side was packed with the crap he'd need for training, the rain outside pattering on the windows, all but inspiring. His special ops weather proof jacket that he wore beneath the carrier flak at times, would cover the elements easily enough, stowed and ready for wear. Turning his head, he cast a look back at the body still nestled beneath the blankets of the bed, smirking to himself as he shook his head. Sleep tight, asshole. Shoulders rotated backwards in a shrug movement as the heavy leather jacket slid over his upper frame, a pair of aviator sunglasses tucked into a breast pocket. Reaching to give the slumbering rear end a firm pat over the blankets, he stood and sauntered out of the room and out of the front door, squinting his eyes in the dark.


End file.
